#felt a need to follow up on this

[unmeisenshi]

Morello would sprint after Louis, eventually finding him in his room back at their house. The Cubone's door was shut, but not locked. Morello would take a few moments before knocking on the door.

"Louis... I'm coming in, okay?" The Lycanroc would wait for an answer, knowing that he wouldn't get one, and would slowly enter the room. Louis was laying on his bed, curled into a small ball. Morello would sit down on the floor, leaning against the wall.

"Is this how we're going to do this?" Morello asked, slight annoyance and hurt in his voice. When Louis didn't move or say anything, the Lycanroc sighed. "Okay... That's fine." Morello lapsed into a bout of silence, trying to find the words to say.

"I couldn't save Zane... Because I was injured. There were riots from a cult, and in trying to protect Phoebe I was trampled. I've been rehabbing my body ever since... But at the time I couldn't do anything." The Lycanroc went silent as he started crying. "I trusted their instinct to go on a mission... They got hurt protecting Phoebe... It's what made their core unstable."

Morello wiped his eyes and nose before continuing. "There isn't a day where I don't wish I could have done things differently... Wish that I wasn't in town that day with Phoebe and just stayed home with her. Maybe then I could have gone on that mission instead of them... And they'd still be here..." Morello would bury his head into his hands, silently crying.

Louis would turn his head slightly, seeing the state that his parent was in. He initially turned back around, but began feeling lots of emotions. He would get out of his bed, and would sit next to Morello, leaning against the Lycanroc's side. "Dad, I'm..." Louis would hug Morello's arm. "I'm sorry..."

"It's okay, Louis. You were feeling a lot of emotions... And I don't blame you for feeling them." Morello would hug Louis back, giving a soft chuckle.

"But... Why do I still have this urge to see Zane? It feels like I know them... But I've never met them... Why?"

Morello would take a deep breath. "That's because... Zane met with Arceus before they died... And asked for a part of their soul to be put into a Pokemon egg that I was given after they passed. That Pokemon... Is you, Louis."

Louis would look up at Morello with wide eyes. "Wait, so..."

"Yeah. You've been asking to see Zane... And to meet them to be closer to them... When they've been close to you this entire time." Morello would smile.

Louis would look down at his body, then back up at Morello. "Are you for real?"

"For real, for real." Morello said. "It's amazing just how similar you are to Zane."

"Can you tell me a little bit about them?"

Morello nodded, and the two would lay together in Louis' bed, the Lycanroc telling stories to the Cubone until the two fell soundly asleep.

[aluminia]

OK I saw a poll about something similar and now I am curious

-Assume it's a celebrity you like and that they haven't made a statement about this sort of thing.

-The celebrity in question is just casually out and about, they are not part of an event or panel.

-By "go up to them" I mean saying hello or asking for a picture

-If you have to talk to them as part of your job it doesn't count unless you also ask for something similar to the above.

-This is a judgement free zone, there is no correct answer I am just curious.

Inspired by this poll

[ehlnofay]

Martin thinks that he always kind of knew he was going to die today.

But by Akatosh, he didn’t think it would be like this – like Kvatch all over again, Kvatch folded in on itself, the streets overrun with monsters triple-time as thick, all metal and sulphur and blood. They were supposed to make it in time. He was supposed to light the fires. He was supposed to be crowned, and let some new, less visceral kind of horror begin – they were supposed to make it through – they were supposed – they supposed – but the streets are shaking with Dagon’s footfalls, and Martin can’t take a step without kicking a corpse, and the Hero of Kvatch is heavy-too-heavy against his shoulder, and it was always going to be like this. It never could have ended any other way.

He can feel prayer bubbling up from his scraped-raw throat, bitter as bile, held behind his teeth. O Akatosh, first of the gods, steady my hand… He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t mouth it. Tries not to think it, though it’s a rhythm born of years of habit, once a comfort, now just – empty. But it unspools in his head all the same. Pax is leaned heavy against his shoulder, one arm hooked loosely around his, hand pressed against the sticky-dark spot on their armour; they’re short, but they’re not light, and Martin’s arms burn as he tries to hold them up. The sky flares red. His eyes sting with smoke. Grant me the strength to endure. Onward, onward, onward.

Pax’s feet skitter uselessly against the blood-slick cobble. Martin almost trips over a leg, its silver-polished greave shining in the hellish light. The rest of the body is not there. He can taste smoke. He can taste bile. He can see the stained glass, the altars, the prayerbooks, his throat flayed raw begging for a salvation that would never be granted; this is not Kvatch, this is not Kvatch, but the sky burns and the streets are filthy with bodies and there is too much noise to talk, and Pax is damn near dead weight against his side, still holding out their blunt little excuse for a sword. Martin drags her on through the street. Just to the temple doors – just to the temple doors – the side of her head presses fierce against his ear. Martin’s knuckles are white with effort. There is blood on his fine silken robes.

Again, the streets shake; Pax staggers at his side. Akatosh, protect us. Martin doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the red-stained sky blurring against body – he can already see the cobbles cracked under the weight of feet too massive for his mind to make sense of it, a body – man or monster, he doesn’t know – crushed beneath the heel. Pax is gesturing at the colossus’ ankle with their sword as if they could possibly do anything at all. They’re bleeding.

“Come on,” Martin says, shallow and jagged; it stings to speak, and there’s so little point, his ears so filled with the clashing of metal and horrible, inhuman screams that there’s not room for anything else. His grip tightens around Pax’s shoulders. Her face is set, stubborn and pale – and she’s so stupidly young – and Martin –

There is an emotion so large it threatens to split him at the seams, and they don’t have time for that, so Martin runs. Staggers past the barely sketched-out shape of the devil menacing the skies, child hero in tow; every breath stinks of fear and ash. His throat prickles. If he doubles over with coughing, Pax will fall, there, onto bloody cobblestone, with their toothpick of a blade and their empty quiver, their sharp-spined bow slung carelessly over their shoulder, pearl-grey gambeson slowly darkening with blood, so Martin doesn’t cough. Blessed are we, the faithful…

They don’t fall, and they aren’t crushed, darting around the earth Dagon stands upon, slow and sluggard and so astonishingly lucky, and Martin gasps, and he does not cough, and Pax kicks at a scamp that gets too close and waves the sword at it just enough to slice a shallow cut down its scrabbly little arm. Martin’s so focused on holding them up that he can’t even cast. It isn’t even the one prayer running inescapable through his head – it’s a mess of them, all twisted and torn to pieces, shreds of one, half a sentence of another. He nearly trips over on the stairs. In the crowd, armour flashes, bright as steel and thoroughly outnumbered. He should pray for the Blades, too; he would, if he thought it would do anything. But it didn’t, last time. And this time, he has something better up his sleeve than prayer.

“Almost there,” he says through the din, and Pax keeps their sword arm raised even though they don’t know how to use the bloody thing, and there’s blood on their Kvatch gambeson, and there’s blood on Martin’s regal robes. (It was going to be him – that dremora’s blade whip-thin and wicked and dark as soot, jabbed thin as a sewing needle through the slippery-soft fabric, hooked under his ribs or pierced through the soft meat of his gut. Pax, empty-quivered, still drawing his sword, angled his own body to intercept; caught it in the thick pillow of his armour, in his own skin. Martin spat a spell from his fingers that sent the thing crashing to the ground and grabbed Pax well before they began to follow.) The earth shakes, again, and Martin’s shin hits the edge of the next step. He can’t hear anything over it all, but he sees Pax suck in a breath, sharp and pained. She takes another step. He follows.

When they reach the dark-stone door, someone screams, high and terrible, and there is no time to stand on ceremony; Martin throws himself at it, shoving it with all his weight behind his shoulder, and together, they stumble inside the temple, ash blowing in behind them to scatter itself on the sacred, stagnant floors.

The door swings closed again; the sound is swallowed up, faint and muffled. Martin can hear them both breathing, ragged, loud. Pax hasn’t lowered their sword. It looks even more dull, here, contrasted against the stonework. They’re so quiet. He hates that he’s learned how they act when they’re in pain.

(It’s holy ground. It won’t be enough – it barely was in Kvatch, it’s nowhere near it now – but it’s not nothing. There’s blood spilling over the tile.)

Martin sucks in a desperate, dragging breath. He doesn’t let go of them.

There’s not much light in the Temple, but it’s enough; it’s clear of smoke and that all that burning reddish tint, outside, and now that Martin has a moment to look them in the face Pax looks awful. His skin is ash-pale and slick with sweat, fringe sticking to his forehead, brow creased as if with concentrated effort and jaw taut. Every breath rattles in his chest and whistles out between his teeth. One palm sticks to the place in her side where her armour is dark and sodden; Martin is afraid to peel it away. It can’t be a wide wound, the cut not even enough to tear more of the gambeson than is covered by her hand, but shit it’s a lot of blood. It’s so much blood. He was never an especially good healer and he can’t even begin to accurately estimate it but it’s too much; it’s entirely too much. And it was because she was protecting him. It’s enough to make a man sick; but there’s no time, so Martin isn’t.

It's so much blood. Pax’s eyes are unfocused, drifting somewhere over his shoulder. His face is so clammy and so young – by the Nine, he’s a child. He’s a child and a hero and Martin’s friend and he’s bleeding out on the Temple floors. Martin hates himself, a bit, for going along with any of this in the first place, for letting them send a fifteen year old child out to risk killing themselves, only to get them here – this place, bleeding out onto sacred marble, where they always would’ve ended up anyway. All roads lead to this.

Inevitability. It’s an idea that showed up often in the sermons Martin used to help give. The Amulet is blood-warm and heavy round his neck.

“Pax,” Martin says; one arm is threaded under her armpits, and he lifts the other to press gently to her cheek. Just under her eye there’s a dark spot of ash; he swipes it off with his thumb, watches the slow, sticky blink she gives in response. “Hey. Are you with me?”

“Always,” she mumbles; her voice is sludgy, like it’s caught in treacle, but the word comes without delay – like it’s instinct, like there’s nowhere else she’s ever imagined being, and doesn’t that just make a man want, a bit, to throw himself off a cliff. (She’s gone to hell, on his word, who knows how many times over; Martin doesn’t need her half-dying drive to affirm her loyalty to him. He knows. He knows. He thinks he might be sick.) She blinks again, and then her eyes sharpen; she throws a tired look over her shoulder at the cool stone of the door, the world beyond muted, as if this moment occurs on its own; like they’re flies, frozen in amber. She says, “It won’t keep them out forever.”

Holy ground was barely enough in Kvatch; it will be barely anything here.

Martin’s arm is aching. He’s not that strong. “Long enough,” he says, with far more brusque certainty than he feels, and he casts a glance over the smooth marble floors, the well-wrought stonework of each plinth and pillar. “Come on. Sit down.”

Arms burning, he helps them to the side of the room, leans them against the leverage of the smooth white wall; still, they don’t sit, and Martin has to help lower them down. Pax grunts like a shot animal as he slowly sinks down to the ground, Martin’s hands still bruising tight on his shoulders, sword slipping from his sweaty grasp to clatter on the floor. His bow, slung over his shoulder, presses awkward against the wall; his empty quiver lies at his hip, useless. His hand is still pressed to the stain on his gambeson.

Martin watches him breathe out through gritted teeth, his tongue pressed ragged against the gap behind his lower canine. His head tips back against the wall. His gambeson, blood-spattered, barely protective, is tied with a row of neat leather cords; Martin reaches for one intricate knot and begins to tug on the ends.

Maybe it’s because he’s a bit frantic, that he just can’t get it to untangle – maybe it’s that the whole world is ending outside the door and they have a minute to stop it, if they’re lucky. Maybe it’s that Pax’s head is lolling, a little. Maybe it’s that it’s all on his head – has been on his head since any of it began, since he knew any of it at all, and now another city is falling, and he can still smell smoke, and he has a minute, if he’s lucky. He feels like they should have more time. He needs to undo the gambeson. He needs to make sure they’ll be all right. Martin was always going to die today – he feels it, settled comfortable and hazy over him, an unerring certainty in the very marrow of his bones, a knowledge passed down from the man they call his father – but Pax sure as shit isn’t. Not if he has anything to say about it, which he does, because it’s been on his head since the beginning and he’ll shoulder it all but he won’t bear this. His fingers scrabble, desperate, at the ties; every moment he waits is a murder, but leaving them here would be murder, too, and Martin won’t have that blood on his hands. And the knots won’t just come easy. He’s lost so much time and he hasn’t even gotten half.

Pax is looking at him, her eyes blood-dark. “You’re not going to get it,” she says, and her voice slurs, a little, in her mouth; pain or blood loss or shock, almost definitely, but Martin was never a particularly skilled healer and the magic he spent to get them through that horrible crush outside has left him too tapped to be able to probe. “They’re tied too tight.”

Martin can hear the ringing of metal outside. The earth is still shaking.

“Fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the vowel, and turns to rifle through their quiver. He hears them exhale, long and shaky, as he searches.

They don’t even have any fucking potions – he’d take anything, at this point, anything at all, he’d take the foulest cheapest draught as long as it would slow the bleeding, or even just a bandage, but there’s no bottles or flasks and no loose cloth. There’s one salve, pale and sticky in a purple-stained pot, but that can’t be used without access to the skin and probably can’t be good in an open wound in any case. There isn’t anything. There isn’t anything at all. Time is slithering away between his fingers. There are broken bits of prayer sticking like glass shards under his tongue, again. He doesn’t want to say any of it; it sticks in his throat, anyway. Lord Akatosh, sacred dragon, walk ever with me; under your gaze I will not fall short. Pax is looking at him, brow creased, face the very picture of dedicated focus; their hair, done in a long, simple braid back when they were just supposed to be speaking to the Council, has come half-loose, looping strands hanging about their face and trailing over their eye. Martin lifts a hand – notes, with detached interest, that it is shaking – and brushes it out of the way.

“I��m sorry,” he says – and he is, by the Nine, it settles with all the rest of the guilt in his gut, all to be burned soon enough – “there’s not time for me to heal you properly. How are you feeling? Are you all right?” Their skin is still clammy to the touch, sweat-damp wherever he touches; their eyes are more focused now but still screwed up with pain.

Pax gives a short puff of air. It’s not a laugh, not in his state, but it’s not all that far off; his voice is gravel-rough. “Got stabbed, Martin Priest. ‘S not great.”

Stabbed in the gut, while protecting him – bleeding all over the sanctified floors, the grout will never recover, and why is he thinking about that when the blade could have caught an organ and Martin would never know because he’s never been that good a healer. The ground is shaking again. They’ve been in here a minute, maybe, and he already feels like they’re stealing time. The seconds are slipping away quickly. He’s digging his fingers fiercely into the cloth of Pax’s shoulder; if he doesn’t hold onto her somehow he thinks he might fall down.

(He’s glad she’s here, and he hates himself for being glad. She’s bleeding. It should be his blood.)

His face must be doing something truly impressive, because Pax cracks a grin, wide and crooked and sticky-mouthed. “Calm down,” she says, the words thick as treacle in her mouth, “I got at least ten more minutes in me. What’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Martin echoes. That statement is nowhere near as reassuring as she seems to mean it to be; he shakes his head. Looks back at the doorway, still closed – noise of battle still raging, earth still trembling, but none of it imminent, probably, not within the next three seconds – and surges forward to wrap their shoulders in a fierce hug, careful to keep away from their abdomen, his cheek pressed against their hair. They smell of sweat and smoke and blood; he takes a deep breath, anyway. “I’ll do the rest, Pax, just – rest.” His voice cracks, again. “Be okay.”

(There’s more prayer pressed into those two words than in anything else he’s thought today.)

Pax reaches a hand up to pat his sleeve; her head, still, is resting against the stone, the set of her shoulders a little tauter, a little more alert. “I can still help,” she insists. The sword – blunt little instrument that it is – lies on the floor, tacky with monstrous blood; she doesn’t even try to reach for it. The bow slung over her shoulder is jabbing him in the collarbones. Martin pulls back enough to shake his head.

“No,” he says; because they can’t. The rest is for him and him only, so no-one else has to get hurt. Pax got him this far – got him out of the wreckage of Kvatch – got him out of the stagnant mire in his head – got a blade in the gut, for their trouble, and even if Martin had anything else to ask of them he couldn’t ask for more.

Pax glowers, at that, the crease reappearing between his brows; Martin could laugh, if it was another day, if they had another moment. He presses his face to the top of Pax’s head, instead, nose dug sharply into his hair; and he breathes, and he breathes, and he breathes.

He’s not an orator, but the way Pax talks they seem to think he’s accustomed to giving grand speeches; he’s certainly had enough practice lately. His breath shudders. He dredges up what words he can. They’ve been in the Temple a minute already; he doesn’t think they can ask another.

“I,” he says, and breathes; “I cannot stay to help rebuild Tamriel – that must fall to others.” He couldn’t have been Emperor, not ever – he’s never been able to fix things, not on this scale. The weight of the Empire would have run him into the ground. He would have hated it. It would have killed him. (Didn’t it?)

Pax’s hand skims the fine cloth at his elbow again. Voice slow, they say, “What –”

“I know now what I was born to do,” Martin says, and he tries to smile. He doesn’t know if they can feel it. His hands clasp the sides of their face; their hair is tickling his nose. They feel cool to the touch, dead-fish clammy; but it will be all right, because once it’s all over the healers will come in, better at flesh-craft than Martin’s ever been, and they’ll fix it. They’ll fix it all. And the Blades are here, however little Pax usually chooses to engage with them, so he won’t be alone. And the Elder Council, the whole Empire, will owe him a debt of such gratitude – he won’t be alone, again. He’ll have options. He’ll miss him – but he’ll live. And Martin will, for once in his sorry life, have actually fixed something.

His friend’s hair smells like smoke. Their skin is shining with sweat and grime. “You’ve been such a good friend in the short time that I’ve known you,” he says, and he’s smiling, he knows it, a melancholy thing pressed into their hairline. His voice is shaking, just a little. “I’m sorry I couldn’t – I couldn’t stay to know you better.”

“Martin,” Pax says, and he pulls back. Their face is creased, ash and blood smeared over their cheekbone. Suspicion lines the tilt of their brow.

Martin smiles, still. His palms, rough and dry, cradle her face. “But now I must go,” he says, gentle; “The Dragon waits.”

And Martin, for one, is done waiting.

He pushes what magic he has left into his hands, sunshine-bright; Martin is no great healer, particularly not when his reserves are tapped, particularly not when he can’t even see the wound, but he can at least soften the edge, dampen the overwhelming pull of the pain. His hands sting with the effort, his head spins, the ground shakes; and one of those has nothing to do with expending himself. Right on time, it seems; the Amulet of Kings hangs warm and heavy around his neck.

Martin stands, though his legs shake; stumbles a step backwards; turns to face the dais in the middle of the room, the shallow marble dish of it lying cold, the pillars around it as stark and foreboding as the bars of any cage. He runs.

“Martin!” he hears behind him, because Pax is Pax and of course they won’t let him go easy; the earth shakes, anticipation winding up into a wiry coil in his gut. The Amulet is hot enough to burn, bright as the sun – he heaves himself up onto the raised platform, reaches to unloop it from around his neck –

The ceiling caves in, and Martin throws an arm over his eyes, closing them against the implosion of dust and grit, scraping in a breath thick enough to choke. His ears are ringing. He manages to squint up, catches a glimpse of a massive fist swiping the rubble away from the hole, the glint of a battle-axe, a silhouette against the burning red sky, roiling and howling like a column of storm. Martin can’t even make out a face, but he knows, somewhere deep and solid, that it’s looking at him. He meets its gaze, the Amulet raised high in his hand.

All prayer has deserted him, now, all the rote lines and careful patterns he leant on for so long slipping away from his fingertips as if they were never there at all. All he has is please, weighty, guttural, and he thinks it might mean more than any of the rest of it. Please. Please. You owe me this. The Amulet of Kings burns in his hand.

“Martin!” he hears again, hoarse and desperate; he looks. Just once. Pax has dragged himself across the dust-coated floors, bow and quiver abandoned somewhere behind him; his face is covered in dirt, hair come half-loose, eyes stubborn and fierce and wild. He feels his eyes crease, the lightest echo of a smile. He’ll miss them, wherever he goes next. Pax screams, “Don’t!”

Martin Septim was always going to die today. It is, perhaps, one of the first things he’s ever done right.

Martin smashes the Amulet of Kings on the cold marble dais, and the world erupts in gold.

[nelkcats]

Animal shelter at the mansion

Something strange is starting to happen in Gotham; multiple reports of different animals running through the streets but they look green and translucent, it seems that no one has been able to capture any of them.

This, of course, catches Damian's attention, who takes ownership of the case the minute he hears about it. He doesn't quite understand what kind of animals they are, but he'll do everything he can to protect them, even if he can barely touch them.

The Batfamily isn't quite sure what to do about it, it's obvious the animals aren't going anywhere but they all seem to be following Damian to the mansion, and as much fun as it is, Bruce already had one too many cardiac arrests at the sight of the green tiger.

On the other hand, Danny is extremely concerned when Clockwork informs him of an unstable portal that the ghosts of the Realms have been using. It's obvious that the humans only noticed the ghost animals, but Danny is aware that many others went through that portal and are about to cause chaos.

[uncanny-tranny]

I love you smile lines and worry lines and grey and white hair and wrinkles and purple spiderweb veins and the process of aging and living in a body that is standing the test of times. I love you experiences that make you wiser and stories that make you laugh, and every little process that happens to get to the point where you have so many memories because you have the fortune to be here and be so radiant

[akkivee]

ghost ichiro being borne from ichiro’s ego!!!!!!!!!!!!! ichiro is strong so therefore, ghost ichiro is strong!!!!! and ghost ichiro being so cocky and condescending about his ability to do anything ichiro can comes from ichiro’s reliance on himself, on ichiro’s need to do everything by himself!!!!!

ghost rio being borne from rio’s due diligence!!!!!!! rio himself had chosen to be alone if that’s what it takes to complete his mission and the ghost rio that didn’t hesitate to threaten murdering a civilian is exactly who rio would have become had he not had his team!!!!

ghost gentaro was borne from gentaro’s desire to expose the truth!!!!! he wanted to expose chuuoku’s crimes as retribution for putting his brother in a coma!!!!! and the irony is that ghost gentaro put somebody in a coma for exposing the truth!!!!!!

ghost kuukou was borne from kuukou’s belief that humans are weak!!!!! but whereas kuukou does whatever he can to help them find the strength within themselves to keep moving forward, ghost kuukou tried to keep them by his side to hide them and protect them from that world!!!!!

[140smashedguitars]

sutekh, the god of death, an all powerful being, LOST because he had to know who the fuck this random lady's mother is??? why though? how many babies and children are abandoned all the time and he just killed them all, yet he really needed to know who ruby's mother is. they can't have it both ways, they can't say "oooo who's ruby's mother? why did she abandon her at the church? why does the video mess up around her so you can't see her face? why did she dress like that? what was she pointing at?" and also "she is the most normal person who was actually protecting her daughter from an awful household and is no one special". obviously there is nothing wrong with making ruby ordinary, in fact it's kind of necessary (there's a reason they only had 2 time lords in the tardis once); you need the audience surrogate to relate to and bring the show down to earth. but in doing so they've ruined the whole point of the finale

there is NOTHING to suggest that ruby's mother's identity was important to ANYTHING, but she needs to be if sutekh is going to risk DESTORYING ALL LIFE IN THE UNIVERSE over it. is ruby's heritage only interesting because she was with the doctor? you know, the being who was found abandoned on an alien planet, no indication of where they came from, how old they are, who their species was/is, with the ability to regenerate to avoid death (which might be of interest to the GOD OF DEATH), who was kidnapped and experimented on, and had that ability stolen. you know the person who was made the most important being in the universe by the writers. nah fuck that, sutekh doesn't care about them, just about.... this random human woman who was left outside a church as a baby

just... completely fumbled. absolute nonsense

[3-aem]

i also don’t want to portray myself as faultless. my work isn’t ai and it isn’t copied. but nk will say i Had old pieces that were copied and referenced ai. Yet it isn’t good faith when i apologize, state how i took accountability, and explain thats definitely not the case today because i learned my lessons- to respond with well you made these mistakes in the past so how can i believe you, you are lying, and have not changed.

so i quit. how can i prove myself then besides what i mentioned in the last post. my question is will you even ALLOW me to prove myself. each time i must explain, i place a spotlight on something that was resolved agreeably with the artists, resolved by removing the works, and resolved within myself by learning from it. but by not saying something i also allow You to concoct narratives and have to watch people spread them around and come to me demanding apologies. it is a very uncomfortable very distressing process that has worn me down completely.

never mind that other artists who have copied have not nearly been requested to apologize as much as i have been. never mind that they were forgiven when they removed the works or even when they just say sorry and don’t remove the work at all. But you still choose to hound me afterwards for doing just that?

nk has stated that i have not fixed this. and that i must address it. how many times though? for how long also? who on this planet starts the conversation by recounting all their mistakes, especially when they know they are resolved.

i have had to learn my lessons through cruelty like yours. trust me its a trauma i have to bear and they are not lessons you then forget.

my anger and my feelings of defeat come from the fact that even after nk was still talking like i had not even attempted to make progress. just look at your tone here.

[al-luviec]

still haven't moved on from zane in this episode (aka I hit tag limit again and am unhappy about it)

[pass3ra]

cressida's storyline was genuinely shameful tbhhh it's like they started rewriting it in the first half of the season then completely forgot about the changes they'd made to make it fit the book plot and it just ends up making everyone else look bad😐 every character in the second half got a "penelope did nothing wrong" lobotomy so we ended up with eloise completely ignoring cressida being sold off to an horrible man (when she made every effort to support her in the first half of the season) and for some reason resenting her for pretending to be lady whistledown? Then they somehow frame her ignoring colin's offensively bad pleas as it being her turning away from redemption when all she's trying to do is escape being trapped in the country with her likely abusive aunt... and it ends with her meeting her horrible fate and it still being framed as tragic only to immediately juxtapose it with the bridgerton family winning the idgaf war while gleefully seeing off francesca and her future dead husband. The bridgertons were the villains of the season frfr

[candywraptor]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Hazbin Hotel (Cartoon) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alastor/Lucifer Magne | Morningstar Characters: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Lucifer Magne | Morningstar Additional Tags: Alcohol, Drunken Confessions, But not quite, Late Night Conversations, enemies to something else, Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Soft, Sharing a Bed

Summary:

Alastor is drunk and Lucifer is amused - until he isn't.

[mettywiththenotes]

In another world Spinner would be thanking Izuku for saving Tomura from AFO instead of crying over his death

[b-blushes]

i do think that it's so important to genuinely meet patients feelings where they're at and actively factor them in when you're dealing with medical stuff. that might sound like an obvious thing but a DIFFERENT obvious thing that a lot of people believe is that a dr is saying you should do X because it will be good for you and the patient is saying 'well that makes me feel pissed off' and the response is 'well i, the dr, am saying that that is good for you' and that's what you should do. and it's like okay cool but the patient is saying that that makes them feel pissed off. so that needs to be interrogated too!!! for example we are talking about pacing activities. and the dr says 'try breaking down hoovering your house down into steps so you do one room at a time. you should do restorative rest breaks in between (sitting down to watch tv is not a restorative rest activity because it uses a lot of cognitive energy to concentrate and keep up). then hoovering will cause less of a fatigue spike.' and the patient is saying 'this makes me feel pissed off'. and a lot of the time it's met with like 'well patient you should just do it because that is the way to do it that is hypothetically (and perhaps ACTUALLY, in practice) good for you'. but it's important to actually dig into why this is making the patient feel pissed off. for example, 'if i break down hoovering into doing one room at a time, then my WHOLE DAY is about hoovering. or, if i can only do one room per day, then a whole chunk of DAYS is about hoovering, because that is my energy intensive activity for that chunk of time and i can't do additional energy intensive activities in the time (day for example) i have allocated to my now extra-long hoovering activity. and that really fucking sucks to me.' and then you can actually dig into this. but a lot of the time it just stops at 'this is what you should be doing' and then you are living a diligent but perhaps somewhat miserable life. or you are a noncompliant patient with the consequences that this entails (bad ones). or you are just doing whatever you want because you won't engage at all because the suggestion has pissed you off and you have voiced this but instead of this expression of feeling being met where you are at and with genuine mutual curiosity, the conversation about why you are having those feelings was not had because being pissed off 'is not productive or conducive to improvement'. and perhaps you are feeling worse. i'm not saying you always have to LISTEN to the 'the patient is feeling that this pisses them off' and make decisions based purely on immediate reactive feelings (i do not think this is a good basis for building a life at all really!), but like it should have some more weight in the conversation that i feel it is typically, in my experience, given. this is a conundrum i am actively facing at the moment, and i do not know the answer to it.

[stardustdiiving]

How evil is arlecchino and what is she cooking

As of 4.2, I’m really curious what they’re planning with Arlecchino as a character, especially as a villain/antagonist/morally dubious character, and how far/which direction they may go with that

Intuitively my impression is we’ll see her do something way more “villainous” than she presents herself as being for majority of Fontaine’s AQ in front of us right—(which isn’t a surprise given that, you know, Arlecchino nor the House of Hearth have never been presented as 110% ethical LOL) but I find myself not being in complete agreement with most analysis or speculation threads I see about Arlecchino’s morality and the like, level of sinister people seem to ascribe to her.

Idk how to put it, especially in regards to her children I do agree they are not a wholesome found family, that Arlecchino is not above pulling strings or using them for her own ulterior motives, but I kind of hesitate on the idea she only cares about the Hearth children as a means to the end/things she can control and there’s nothing else going on with her characterization wise there. I’m not saying that impression seems remotely unreasonable or unfounded, but just that it feels there’s something intentionally missing in how we are supposed to conceptualize her as a person

My main reasoning for this hunch is the fact they have not elaborated on Arlecchino and the previous Knave—who Arlecchino is stated to have taken over the position from by force. The extra tidbits I think about are that 1) Arlecchino was previously an orphan in the Hearth 2) the previous Knave is described as way, way crueler to the children of than Heart than Arlecchino was from when she took control of the House

Often, people’s major indicators that the House of the Hearth is kind of super fucked up are the NPCs we meet in world quests who are part of it and clearly suffering. But one thing I haven’t ever seen people mention w this that i think is a very interesting detail is, in The Very Special Fortune Slip Inazuma worldquest, where we stop this House of Hearth guy (Efim Snezhevich) from manufacturing tension between Watasumi/the Shogunate to restart the war with his other Hearth subordinates, at the end of the quest we get this dialogue that reveals he had been acting under the previous Knave’s directives:

It’s also mentioned he’s employing this plan in an attempt to “rebuild the prestige of the Knave” following Signora’s death, iirc? Now, see, the dialogue itself says that this is “assuming our captive is telling the truth” so who knows what’s really going on, but I find this a really odd/interesting thing to highlight. I’m a bit fuzzy on other world quests with Hearth members, and am not saying none of them were acting and subsequently being treated poorly by our Arlecchino, but like, this gives me a lot of questions especially when paired with implications this previous Knave seemed to be way worse

Like, what drove Arlecchino to take over? How unexpected and controversial was this within the House? Assuming the above information is all true it definitely says something this guy went rogue and acted on what the previous Knave would want and didn’t think our Arlecchino would greenlight it, which does feel consistent with the previous Knave being described as basically worse & crueler than our Arlecchino. It also makes me question how much house of hearth things we’ve seen outside the main story are the work of our Arlecchino or if there’s a bigger divide of loyalty. Heck, I could be wrong but it doesn’t even seem like we know if the previous Knave is dead or not

This isn’t me saying Arlecchino couldn’t possibly be treating hearth children worse than she wants us to know, especially ones who aren’t her “favorites” the way the fontaine trio seem to be, but I really don’t feel sure about making a solid conclusion of her exact level of malice the way ppl r generally understanding it rn when it feels there’s going to be more about her. Just the idea of she, as a Hearth child, clashed with the previous leader who was known for being cruel, overtook their position and took on less harsh methods of leading that made at least some members with more power/possible closer proximity to the previous Knave go rogue and try to commit atrocities in the previous Knave’s name…I feel this leaves a lot of room to suggest there’s more going on with how Arlecchino is as a person

I don’t mind if she’s just very evil and deceptive bc if she totally had me fall for thinking she was less evil than she actually was that’s fun tbh. But I feel people suggest that’s all her character could be with no degree of like, “sympatheticness” or deep grey morality and that if her character did go there it would be automatically poor writing and genshin walking back on making a truly evil woman when IDK. I feel you can claim at this point they have left it open ended and it’s never been completely confirmed she’s pure evil. Also sometimes I just get a hunch and feel cautiously confident in Genshin executing certain characters well. Not all characters, just certain ones. Especially given Fontaine’s character writing being very good and a character like Lyney feeling very solid to me when any development with Arlecchino would likely involve him and his siblings as well, I honestly feel open to the idea of Arlecchino being satisfyingly written to be both villainous/morally dubious but “sympathetic/likable as a person” in ways outside of just her ruthlessness if that makes sense

If I’m wrong/they drop the ball with it more than I anticipate I’ll eat my hat but I am pretty excited about her character and which way they decide to go with it. I will say the only potential impression I have of where they’ll go with her has been wondering if it will go in a “cycles of abuse” direction—I’d be surprised if they ever elaborated on Arlecchino’s character especially in how she feels about things and her also growing up as an exploited child of the hearth wasn’t relevant

[blueberry-beanie]

activism day

[ookikufurikabutte]

secret for you all: i don't go by zack anymore. haven't for a long time. but i'm too lazy to change my art tag so idgaf.....